


Buds that Open Out of Season

by embroiderama



Category: White Collar
Genre: HIV/AIDS, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Multi, Pre-Relationship, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-02
Updated: 2012-04-02
Packaged: 2017-11-02 22:52:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embroiderama/pseuds/embroiderama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Neal left prison again after Kate's death, he had to find a way to live with a new reality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buds that Open Out of Season

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [](http://dotfic.livejournal.com/profile)[**dotfic**](http://dotfic.livejournal.com/) for the beta and to Galway Kinnell for the title. This was written rather belatedly for [](http://rabidchild67.livejournal.com/profile)[**rabidchild67**](http://rabidchild67.livejournal.com/)'s [prompt](http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/22166.html?thread=172694#t172694) at the [Chronic Illness/Permanent Injury Fic-a-Thon](http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/22166.html).

It was almost like preparing for a con: fresh new identification in his wallet, which was tucked into the pocket of the unremarkable blue jeans he had picked up at the thrift store along with the gray sweatshirt he was wearing to keep warm. Mozzie hadn't asked why he needed the ID, and Neal hoped like hell that he never had any reason to explain. He walked into the clinic that was just inside his radius. He checked in at the desk and took his seat, focused on the hope that the day would end with Walter O'Brien being recorded in a file somewhere as HIV negative.

A woman in blue daisy-print scrubs took Walter O'Brien's fictitious personal information. When she asked about his sexual history, Neal dug his thumb nail into the tip of his forefinger and let the pain steady him as he told her that his last sexual encounter had been three months ago. That it had been unprotected.

He didn't tell her that he'd barely cared at the time, that he'd been too numb with grief and shock to charm or buy or trade his way out of the very special "welcome back" he'd received when he found himself in prison again. He hadn't even protested, just let his mind vaporize into the same red ball of fire that had taken Kate. He didn't want to die, but he thought that maybe he was already dead.

Now, sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair while a woman with blue rubber gloves on her hands stuck a swab in his mouth, Neal wouldn't let himself slip back to that place. He was out again, wearing the anklet instead of the orange, and the pain of losing Kate still swamped him sometimes but he knew he was alive. He knew he wanted to stay that way. Back out in the waiting room, Neal paged through a six month old copy of _Time_ and watched the minute hand travel halfway around the clock face before Walter O'Brien's name was called for the second time.

They directed him into a different room, and the woman who met him wasn't wearing daisy printed scrubs. She wore a white lab coat over her khaki pants and green oxford shirt, and in a kind, calm voice she said the words "preliminary positive." Neal tasted bitter adrenaline in his mouth and his ears rushed with the tidal pulse of his heartbeat. He looked away from the doctor, closed his eyes, let this new truth drop down inside him until his mind stilled and the world settled around him.

He felt the touch of a hand on his shoulder and opened his eyes to see the doctor looking at him. "I'm sorry," he said, surprised at the rough sound of his own voice.

"Nothing to be sorry for, Mr. O'Brien. As I said, I'm going to have a nurse come in and take a blood sample so that we can confirm the result and run some other tests as well. When you come back we'll talk about treatment options. As long as you take care of yourself, there's every chance you can stay healthy for a long time."

Neal nodded. He read; he knew. He just hadn't thought this would ever be him, not after he made it through nearly four years in prison safe and sound.

"See Tania at the front desk on your way out and make an appointment for Wednesday. We'll talk more then." She stood and looked down at Neal. "I'm sorry that we didn't have a different result for you today, Mr. O'Brien."

"Not your fault," Neal replied, trying to smile.

The nurse, a man in black scrubs this time, came in and took a drop of blood from his finger and a vial from his arm. Neal pulled the sleeve of his sweatshirt down over the small bandage, made his appointment at the front desk, and walked out into the cacophony of the city. He almost walked the wrong way--right through the border of his radius--and that shook him far enough out of his daze to walk back to June's without getting into trouble. The last thing he needed was the Marshals and the FBI scrutinizing his tracker data, looking into why he might have visited the clinic under an assumed name when he had perfectly legitimate medical coverage.

He didn't know what Peter's reaction would be, what the repercussions would be if he found out, but Neal didn't want to find out, didn't ever want to have that discussion with him. Then again, he thought, maybe it was a false positive. Maybe on Wednesday the doctor would smile and tell him it had all been a mistake, that he was clean, another bullet dodged.

Back at June's, Neal started to change into one of his favorite suits. He had the rest of the day free, and the weather was beautiful, but the thought of having to see people and smile and be Neal Caffrey made his stomach clench up tight and sick. He pulled off his jeans and sweatshirt and climbed under the covers of his bed, burying his face in darkness and the clean smell of cotton. Just for a little while, he'd let himself be Walter O'Brien.

\---

Five days later, Neal was sitting across the table from Mozzie, running his fingers over the pieces of paper he'd tucked into his pocket. Mozzie was holding forth on his latest conspiracy theory, something about plastic and fish, and Neal knew he could go on for hours. He pulled the papers out of his pocket and held them in his left hand, trying not to crumple them too badly.

"Mozzie?" Neal interrupted the stream of information coming from his friend.

Mozzie stopped talking and looked at Neal, his eyes sharp behind his glasses. "What, are you finally going to tell me what you've been moping about over there?"

"I'm not--I need you to do me a favor."

"Of course."

"You still have somebody who can connect you with pharmaceuticals?"

"Of course. But don't you think you should take advantage of that little insurance card you have in your wallet, courtesy of The Man?"

Neal shook his head, looked down at his hands. He really didn't want to give Mozzie this news, but he didn't have Mozzie's connections and he didn't think he'd be able to make the connections for himself without attracting Peter's attention. "I need this to be off the record, Moz."

Mozzie took the prescriptions from Neal's outstretched hand and examined them, his eyebrows drawing together. "Efavirenz? And Tenofovir? But they're used to treat--" Mozzie looked up then, his eyes wide. "Neal?"

Neal forced himself to shrug. "You know the stats about prison. Even my luck had to run out sometime."

Mozzie stood up, turned around in a circle with jerky movements. "Those filthy Suits. How could they--? It's all their fault. I could--"

Neal walked around the table to stand in front of him. "It's not their fault."

"Well, it's certainly not _your_ fault."

"No." Neal sighed. "I guess it's not."

Mozzie shook his head, took his glasses off, then startled Neal by stepping forward and hugging him. It was one hard squeeze, Mozzie's arms all the way around Neal, and then Mozzie let go and abruptly stumbled back a step. "I'll have them for you tomorrow, the drugs. And I'll look into the research, find out if there's anything better. And make sure this doctor of yours can be trusted."

"I'd expect nothing less," Neal said, his throat tight with gratitude.

\---

When she wasn't busy with traveling or social events or her granddaughters, June loved to spend time in the park. She seemed to enjoy it even more with Neal on her arm, and he was happy to oblige. The sun was almost dazzlingly bright as they walked along, silently people-watching. Despite the calm surroundings, Neal's stomach was turning over from more than just the meds in his system. He didn't want to ask June to keep secrets for him, but he didn't feel right living in her home and not telling her the truth. But he couldn't help worrying that if Peter found out--if the FBI knew, everything would fall apart.

"June?"

"Yes, dear?"

"I need to tell you something, but I'd very much appreciate it if you didn't tell anybody else. Including Peter."

"Especially Peter?"

"Yes."

"I won't say a word, of course not."

"Thank you. First I have to say that if you'd like me to find somewhere else to live, I understand. You've been very kind, but--"

June stopped walking and turned to face Neal, keeping her hand on his arm. "What is this? Neal?"

"Last week, I had a blood test. They told me I'm--" Neal stopped, swallowed. He'd never had to say the words before. "I'm HIV positive."

"Oh, my dear." June's eyes were sad, but she stiffened her mouth and squeezed Neal's arm before pulling herself in closer and starting to walk again. "If you think you're the first friend to tell me that, you're unfortunately far, far from correct."

Neal felt his eyes sting, and he blinked it away, blamed the sunshine. "I'm sorry."

"Don't you be sorry, just take care of yourself. You have what you need?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Good. And do you feel okay?"

"I feel fine, no symptoms. The blood tests were good. Except for the obvious."

June sighed and squeezed her hand on his arm again. "You be sure to let me know if you need any help. And I don't want to hear another word about you moving out."

"Yes, ma'am."

\---

Weeks turned into a month and then two, and Neal settled into his new rhythm. The silent vibration of his cell phone told him when it was time to take his pills, and he managed to keep himself below Peter's radar. He took fewer risks, guided by the desire to avoid exposing any of the agents he worked with to his now-dangerous blood. He could live with the virus for as long as it let him, but the one thing he couldn't live with was passing it on to somebody else. His life felt like a tunnel sometimes, his deal with the Bureau like narrow walls around him, his diagnosis like the weight of water held just above, but a tunnel was better than a grave or a cell and he reminded himself of that every day.

Desire slept soundly inside Neal's mind, curled up tight on that prison bunk, aching with grief for who and what he'd lost. He watched himself, knew that in a different world he would have pursued Sara, knew that there were ways to keep things safe, but he didn't know when it would ever feel safe enough. In any way.

Even in that mythical world where he was healthy and clean, Sara would have only been a distraction from what he wanted but could never have. There was no room for him in Peter and Elizabeth's small, perfect home, and at least in that way nothing had changed. But Neal missed that pang of _want_ when he saw Peter at the top of the stairs, the ache of not touching Elizabeth's skin. From the first time he felt drawn to them it had always been _never_ but now it was _never-ever-ever_ ; he could never bring this into their lives.

He kept Walter O'Brien's appointments at the clinic and read the articles Mozzie sent him. He woke up sick sometimes, from the pills or from dreams about hands on his body, the faceless man who gave him his new reality, and his therapy was putting on one of Byron's best suits, knotting his tie just right, shining his shoes and walking out into the city.

Free. Almost free. Alive. Still.

\---

Sometimes, the worst part of everything was keeping it from Peter and Elizabeth. He knew that they were certainly not ignorant or ill-informed, and he thought that neither of them would be anything other than supportive on a personal level, but he didn't want to put Peter in the position of having to make a professional decision that could take away everything that was good in Neal's life. He couldn't go back to prison, even if the damage was done, and he'd grin his way through living a lie for as long as it took to end his probation.

June brought up hot ginger tea when Neal was feeling queasy and cajoled him out onto the balcony for fresh air and pleasant conversation when he wanted to sleep the weekends away. He didn't talk about the disease with her, couldn't take the sadness in her eyes, even if it was more a shadow of the past than worry for him.

As to how he got the virus, he didn't talk about that with anybody. He couldn't imagine what words he would use, and he didn't want to say them, didn't want to hear them. Like everything else that happened behind bars, it belonged to another life; he just had to remember how to leave it there.

\---

Mozzie kept Neal supplied with meds and made Neal keep him up to date with the specifics, even if they had to talk about it in code. Neal didn't like discussing his health, and hearing the word "virus" made Mozzie more neurotic than usual. When Neal got the results of a blood test that showed his current cocktail was working the way it was supposed to, he called Mozzie on his way back to meet Peter at the office. "Foreign markets are at an all-time low, and tech stocks are nearing peak levels."

"Excellent news, _mon frere_."

"The doctor actually smiled for once; I think today is a good day."

"Have fun subjugating yourself to The Man," Mozzie said, and then hung up.

Neal tipped his head back to look at the sky and adjusted his hat, enjoying the crisp fall breeze. Contrary to the changing season, Neal felt something inside himself start to warm and uncurl, something green and alive. He walked into the office, saw a smile move across Peter's face when they made eye contact, and the pang of desire made Neal's breath catch in his chest. Instead of battering it down, he let the heat of it spread through him; even if the pointless wanting hurt it still felt like a piece of himself coming home.

"I was just about to call you," Peter said. "We've got a line on the forger and we're heading out to see if we can interrupt his little rendezvous. You ready to go?"

"Of course." Neal grinned, feeling more genuine than he had in months.

The bust started off as routine--everybody in vests, Peter out in front, flanked by Diana and Clinton, Neal fitting himself in wherever Peter didn't quite want him as they closed in on the warehouse in Queens. The sound of gunshots sent Neal ducking for cover, and it was only when he twisted around to see if anybody was hurt that he felt the sting in his arm.

"No. No," he said to himself, unsure if it was silent or aloud, as he pulled his jacket off and pressed a wad of ruined fabric against the wound. It wasn't serious, Neal knew--more than a graze, but he didn’t think it had hit anything vital. But the blood wouldn't stop flowing and then Diana was moving toward him with her hands outstretched. Her bare hands. Neal felt his body betraying him, slipping into light shock from the blood loss and pain, but he bit his lip, struggling to stay alert.

"No!" he shouted at Diana. "Stay away!"

"Come on, Neal." She moved closer, her face concerned and annoyed. "We've got a bus on the way but we need to keep pressure on that and you look like you're about to pass out."

"No!" He pulled his knees up close to his body and turned to put his injured arm against the low wall. "No!" He didn't want to explain, could barely find the words to use, but the prospect of exposing Diana was pure panic rushing through his head, his hands shaking as he tried to keep himself together.

"What the hell is going on?" Peter's voice, booming and loud the way it always was when Peter got scared, took the edge off Neal's panic even as he kept his focus on his knees.

"He's shot. Looks like a through and through, but he won't let me anywhere near him."

"Okay. Go help Jones with Mr. Trigger-Happy over there, I've got this."

When Neal looked up and saw Peter getting closer, he felt relief wash through his body, but then he saw Peter's bare hands and remembered why he couldn't let anybody help him. "Get _away_ from me, Peter."

"Neal, I'm not going to hurt you." Peter's voice was very calm and reasonable as he reached out.

"Don't touch me!" Neal looked into Peter's eyes and begged him to comply.

Peter raised his hands up, palms out. "Okay, okay. You've got to tell me what's going on here because I'm about ten seconds away from wrestling you down, and I don't think you're up for the match."

Neal's heart was racing, the world growing gray and thin around him. "HIV positive," he said, the words pushed out on a breath, his stomach sick at having to tell Peter.

Peter's face shut down for a few seconds, and then he shook it off, dug in his pocket and came out with a rubber glove. He pulled it onto his right hand and touched Neal's face with his bare left hand. "It's going to be okay, Neal. Now lie down before you pass out."

Neal relaxed from his tight, hunched ball as Peter reached to examine his arm with his gloved hand, but it was too late. Gray shaded into black, and the last thing he felt was Peter's broad hand cradling the back of his neck. He woke up with a jolt and opened his eyes to see the sky sliding away as he was loaded into an ambulance. The EMTs had gloves on--of course, of course--and then Peter was next to him again, bare hand warm on Neal's face.

"I'm going to meet you at the hospital, okay? Just relax and let them take care of you."

Neal nodded and closed his eyes as he heard Peter climbing down from the ambulance. He didn't quite pass out again--the bandage on his bicep and the IV in his other arm keeping him conscious--but he let himself drift. Whatever was going to happen, it was all out of his control now, and the mixture of relief and dread was exhausting. The rattle of being moved from the ambulance to the ER woke Neal just enough for him to answer a few questions, and then somebody emptied a syringe into his IV and the world dissipated.

\---

When he woke, the first thing Neal heard was the quiet rasp of shoe leather against linoleum, and before he opened his eyes he knew it was Peter pacing next to him. He blinked away the sting of bright lights reflecting off white curtains and saw Peter standing with his back to Neal, his hands on his hips flaring out the sides of his jacket. His broad shoulders were rounded in, the tendons at the back of his neck stretching against the weight of his head hanging forward.

"Hey," Neal said, his voice rough and quiet. He cleared his throat and tried again even though Peter was already turning around. "Peter."

Peter's face was full of a weary sort of anger, but then he sighed and the anger drained away as he stepped closer. "Your arm should be okay." He rested his hands on the railing of the bed, and Neal remembered the weight of that touch on his face.

"Yeah?" Neal twisted a little to look at his left arm, and all he could see was a thick bandage around the bicep, no blood. It ached in a distant way that told Neal he was full of painkillers. "Good, that's good." He felt like an idiot and wanted to blame the drugs but couldn't.

"It is good. It seems that the bullet nicked something that made it bleed a little extra, plus the doctor thinks you were on the verge of anemic to begin with, which didn't help. They gave you some fluids, stitched you up, and you're a couple shades darker than the sheets now so they'll probably let you go soon."

Neal looked away, his heart starting to pound even through the haze of drugs and exhaustion. "You told them."

"I didn't have any choice. _Damn it,_ Neal. I don't know if I want to yell at you or--" He sighed and the shuffle of his feet on the floor took him a few steps away. "I don't know. I wish you'd told me."

"I couldn't. I can't go back to prison. I--I can't."

Peter turned and strode back to the side of the bed. "You think I would do that? Punish you for something like that?"

"I thought you might not have a choice."

"There are rules in regards to criminal informants, but your health status isn't one of them. Jesus, Neal. How long have you been dealing with this?"

"A few months." Three months and sixteen days. "But I'm okay, really. I just didn't think I'd get hurt and then I didn't want to put anybody else at risk."

"I appreciate that. As much as I'm angry about you keeping this from me, I'm just as angry at myself for not seeing it." Peter gripped the rail and let his head drop down between his shoulders. "I knew you weren't yourself, but I thought you were still working through what happened with Kate. And I figured you were keeping your nose clean after being sent back inside."

"You weren't exactly wrong. On either count."

Neal could see Peter wanting to ask more questions, but his eyes were getting heavy again. Peter reached out and wrapped his hand around Neal's good arm. "Okay. Okay. Get some rest, and I'll wake you up when they release you."

"Thanks," Neal whispered as he fell asleep.

\---

With Peter's coat swamping his frame, Neal felt like a kid playing dress-up. Or a girl wearing her boyfriend's jacket, but that wasn't a place Neal could let himself go. There was nowhere to go, he and Peter sitting in the car in traffic halfway across the Queensboro Bridge. Anxious as he was to be home, Neal would've rather taken the subway, no matter how much he usually hated the smell and the noise and the dark press of the tunnels. Peter sat behind the wheel, his awkward, aborted stretches broadcasting his discomfort; the silence sat between them like an unwelcome passenger.

"You sure you don't want to come back to the house? You know El wouldn't mind."

"I'm all stitched up, I'm fine. I don't need to be babysat."

"It's not just--"

"Besides, June's in town. She'll check up on me."

Peter let up on the brake enough to inch the car a few feet forward then ran his hand back and forth over the steering wheel before turning to look at Neal. "June knows?"

"I live in her house. Yes, she knows"

Peter exhaled audibly through his nose and then nodded. "Good. That's good."

Neal closed his eyes and thought about getting home, cleaning up as best he could around the bandage, climbing into his own bed and hopefully sleeping through until morning. Then he thought about Peter, dropping him off and then heading home to El. "You can tell Elizabeth," Neal said into the darkness. "If you want." He felt Peter watching him, and he opened his eyes but kept his gaze forward on the yellow cab in front of them.

"I don't have to do that. It's not mine to tell, Neal." His voice was calm and serious.

"It's not a lot of fun to tell anybody about this, and I think I've hit my limit for right now." And Neal knew that Peter would need to talk about it; he didn't want to deny Peter that. "Please tell her."

"I will." Peter changed lanes, moving them around a fender bender, and then the bridge opened up before them. The rattle of the bridge gave way to the solid streets of Manhattan, and Neal was home. Almost home.

\---

Neal was awake, drowsing over his coffee in the gray morning sunlight when the knock came at his door. It was too light to be Peter, didn’t sound like June, definitely not Mozzy’s secret knock of the week; Neal opened the door to find Elizabeth burdened down with shopping bags in both hands.

“Good morning!” She smiled brightly, the expression slipping slightly when she looked him up and down, making Neal regret not pulling on a shirt before opening the door.

“Elizabeth! This is a surprise.”

“Well, one of my clients is planning a big breakfast event. Really, a _big_ breakfast event, so I’ve been all over town picking up samples of food to try out, and it’s not like I can eat them all myself unless I want to buy a whole new wardrobe, if you know what I mean. So, even though this isn’t exactly gourmet I thought I’d take advantage of your palate. You don’t mind do you?”

“Of course not.” Neal stepped aside to let El and her collection of bags through the door, and she headed straight for the table where she began unpacking boxes with the names of all the best pastry shops in Manhattan and Brooklyn printed on them.

“I just couldn’t decide.” El waved her hands over the accumulation of boxes. “Muffins or scones or bagels or Danishes or donuts. Sandwiches, soufflés, salads, spreads. Sometimes I think there are just too many options, don’t you?”

“Elizabeth,” Neal said softly and she looked up at him, derailing her manic monologue. “It’s okay.”

A frown slipped onto her face before she could control it, and she came around the table to stand in front of Neal. “Oh, sweetie.” She reached one hand up to cup his cheek and stood on tiptoe just long enough to press her lips against his other cheek. She let her hand linger for a moment after her heels were back on the floor, and Neal felt warmth travel from her touch, from the memory of her kiss, until it filled his whole body. He couldn’t help shivering from the unexpected sensation, and El pulled away.

Neal wrapped himself up in Byron’s warmest robe, and then sat down with El at the table, where they spent over an hour nibbling at everything in the boxes. She told Neal about the events she was working on, and Neal caught her up on the gossip from the White Collar division office. When the coffee was gone and neither of them could eat another bite, El put her hand on Neal’s wrist to stop his motions toward cleaning up.

“Do you have plans for Saturday evening?”

“No, I think my calendar’s free.”

“Peter and I are having movie night, just a quiet night in, and we’d love for you to come over.”

It sounded wonderful. And wrong. “Elizabeth, thank you but I don’t want to get in the middle of your romantic evening.”

“We want you there. I wouldn’t invite you if we didn’t.”

“Are you sure Peter’s okay with that?”

“Very sure. Please Neal, I need somebody who’ll be on my side when Peter wants to watch _The Natural_ for the tenth time.”

“I don’t know, I’m a pretty big Robert Redford fan.” Neal grinned, and El swatted at him with her napkin.

“You’ll come?”

“I’ll be there.”

\---

With just a band-aid covering the stitches on his arm, Neal went back to work the next day. He counted it as a positive when he wasn’t greeted with any weird looks, at least not any more than he was used to getting from some of the Harvard crew. He’d barely hung up his hat when Peter called him up to his office, and he steadied himself with a reminder of Peter’s promise, that their arrangement wouldn’t be affected.

“How’s the arm?” Peter asked before Neal could sit down.

“Fine. Still attached.” Neal shot one of his usual grins in Peter’s direction.

“Good to hear.” Peter flipped back some pages on a notepad that looked like it had a list written on it. “Listen, Neal, I know you don’t want to talk about your health, and I promise not to harass you about this but I do have to cover a few bases here.”

“Okay.” Neal pressed his hand against the edge of the chair. Breathed. “You said it wouldn’t affect--"

Peter held up a hand to cut Neal off. “It won’t. That’s not going to change.”

“Thank you.” Neal loosened his grip on the chair.

“You don’t have to thank me. Now, I assume you’ve been going to a clinic, and I’m going to guess that whatever ID you gave them doesn’t say ‘Neal Caffrey’ on it.”

Neal just tilted his head and raised his eyebrows.

“Right, it’s better if you don’t give me any details about that, but you should get that changed now. Whether you want to move your records to a different doctor or you want to stay with the clinic, I want you to have them put the records under your name. Tell them you were working undercover or something. God knows you’ll be able to make them believe anything, but if they have a problem you can have them call me.”

“I guess I can do that.”

“I don’t want there to be some loophole to get you in trouble if the wrong person decides they want to make life difficult for us. And I don’t want you to have any trouble with coverage if you need medical care.”

As much as Neal knew that he could take care of himself, the knowledge that Peter was looking out for him made something inside him relax and go still. “Okay, I’ll get the records fixed. But what about--what if I get hurt again?”

"In a couple weeks we're going to have a seminar, a little refresher course on first-aid and safety. It won't have anything to do with you, but some of us clearly need a reminder about standard precautions."

"That sounds like a good idea."

“And if you need any time for appointments or anything like that, just let me know. I can be flexible with your schedule, at least most of the time.”

“You already have been,” Neal reminded him.

Peter sighed. “And I thought you were using favors for June as a cover for running around with Sara.”

“No. God no. If things were different, maybe. But that’s not really in the cards.”

Peter furrowed his brow like he wanted to argue or discuss the issue further, but then he shook his head. “Anyway, I just want you to know that you can come to me. As long as it doesn’t have anything to do with the Bureau, anything to do with--“ Peter pursed his lips and looked sharply at Neal for a moment. “--past acts that I might have to arrest you for, then it would always be just between us. If you wanted it to be.”

Neal looked down, took a deep breath to ride through the swell of affection he felt for Peter and his awkward, earnest offer of support.

"And now we have my favorite part of this meeting."

Neal looked up, leery of what might be coming next. "What part would that be?"

"The part where we don't have to talk about this anymore, unless you want to." The edge of a smirk broke the somber look on Peter's face.

"Oh yeah." Neal let himself smile, a real smile as tension washed out of his body. "That's my favorite part too."

\---

Saturday evening, when Neal arrived walked through the door to the townhouse in Brooklyn, the living room was warm and bright, redolent of garlic. The dining table was unset, but wooden TV tables sat open in front of the couch. El had made pizzas--thin crust with homemade sauce and artisanal cheeses, artichoke hearts and thin slivers of prosciutto. The salad was spring mix out of a bag, and El laughed as Peter emptied it into salad bowls.

They ate in front of the TV, Elizabeth and Peter on the sofa, Neal in the armchair, Satch cruising the room for crumbs. Halfway through watching Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law run around Victorian London, they took an intermission, and when Neal came back into the room El was sitting in the middle of the couch with her bare feet pulled up under her.

"Come sit with us," she said patting her hand on the empty cushion to her left.

"I don't want to crowd you."

"There's plenty of room," El insisted. "Please?"

And it was impossible to resist her, impossible to say no, so Neal sat and received a warm smile from her in reward. Neal heard the back door close, and Peter walked back in from the kitchen, Satchmo at his heels. Neal watched him, waiting to be asked to leave the couch, but Peter's face just went soft, a smile clear in his eyes even if only a hint of it reached his lips. He sat down on the other end of the couch and kissed El's cheek before turning the movie back on.

When the movie was over, they all refilled their drinks, and El swapped the DVD out for something vaguely romantic and romantically vague. Twenty minutes later, Peter was asleep, his head resting against the corner of the sofa, his face relaxed and still and young. Neal was sleepy himself, not entirely following the plot of the movie.

He looked over when El poked his thigh with her toes. "I'm glad you came tonight." She kept her toes, smooth nails painted a glossy pale pink, pressed lightly against Neal's leg.

"I'm glad you asked me. Thank you."

"I should've invited you before, but I always thought you were so busy with your own plans." She kept her voice quiet in deference to Peter's steady sleeping breaths.

Neal shrugged. "Sometimes."

"But you're not seeing anybody right now?" Elizabeth was completely ignoring the movie, her focus turned on Neal in a way that made Neal want to turn the volume up so she'd ignore him, made him want to lay his head in her lap and tell her all his secrets.

"Did Peter tell you that?"

"No. But you seem so alone, and I hate to see that."

Neal shook his head. "I'm not--I'm not exactly in the position to be with anybody right now. You know that."

She frowned. "I don't know anything like that. There's no reason you couldn't make it work. With Sara or somebody else."

"I don't think I want to make it work, at least not right now."

El looked at him like she could see all of his secrets and then softened her gaze. "Just as long as you know that one day, when you're ready, somebody will be out there waiting for you."

"Maybe." Neal looked over at the TV, a beautiful woman dancing with a vaguely familiar-looking actor. "I'm not sure if it's fair to make somebody else deal with this."

El sighed and then resituated herself, turning to face Neal with her legs folded in front of her, her knees nudging Neal's hip, his knee. "I think there are some things that are a lot less fair. Like, what happened to you, whatever it was--completely unfair."

Her eyes turned bright and she bit her lip before she continued. "But if you close yourself off and keep everything to yourself, your intelligence and your kindness and your love of beauty--if you refuse to share those things with anybody, with people who would love you, then I don't think that's fair either."

"I don't know." Neal looked at El's beautiful face, at Peter asleep behind her, and wondered how much she could know about _not_ finding happily ever after. "I don't know."

She studied him for a moment before leaning in closer. "In case you haven't noticed this already Peter gets a little wrapped up in rules and regulations."

"Just a little," Neal echoed, not sure where Elizabeth was heading.

"He didn't want me to say anything, not while you're still wearing that--" She nodded her head at his anklet. "But I need for you to know, even if all that can come out of it is all three of us...knowing."

"Knowing what?" Neal whispered, his throat feeling oddly rough.

"That we love you. And one day, if you're ready and if you're...free, we'd love to be the people you trust to share your life and your love and everything."

"What?" The word was barely audible.

El smiled gently. "I've seen how you look at Peter when you can't help yourself, and I've seen how you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention. And I've seen the way Peter looks at you, especially since he stopped hiding it from me. Right, hon?"

Neal startled and looked past Elizabeth to see Peter awake and watching them both.

Peter bent his head close to El's shoulder and murmured, "I thought we weren't going to bring this up yet." Then he looked at Neal, something bashful and awkward and utterly charming in his expression. "But she's right. While you're still my CI I won't--can't--let anything physical happen, but that doesn't change the fact that I, we--" He put a hand on El's arm, and she finished the sentence.

"We love you. But if this is all you ever want, our friendship and our hospitality, that's okay too."

Neal sat in silence, the room gently tilting around him as this new reality fell into place. The possible responses overwhelmed him, the things he could say, the things he thought he probably should say, but out of it all one truth refused to stay inside him. "I love you too, both of you."

Elizabeth smiled, and Peter reached across the back of the couch to touch Neal's shoulder with the hand that wasn't holding El.

"Then that's all we need to know, for now," El said. "We're friends who happen to love each other, and that's not the FBI's business." She tipped her head back to look up at Peter. "Right?"

"Right," Peter answered, smiling softly. "Right?" he asked Neal, his eyes making it clear that he wanted to know if Neal was okay.

Neal nodded, meaning it in a way he hadn't in months. "Right."

And the claustrophobic tunnel of Neal's future opened up to a place of air and light. If there was dark water off to the side of the road, Neal thought he wouldn't be afraid to swim. He breathed and he hoped and he dreamed and he waited.

**Author's Note:**

> You can [comment here on LJ](http://embroiderama.livejournal.com/459117.html?mode=reply#add_comment) if you prefer.


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